My whole life I’ve heard about people who have identified their “mission in life” or “their purpose”. I’ve always been baffled by their surety!
Growing up my mission early on was to not wet the bed. I mean, that’s probably still the mission at 58 years old.
Later the mission was to play baseball of any kind. Baseball, Softball, Wiffleball, Stickball and even what we called a “Pitching Game”. Which was just two kids trying to throw strikes to each other. I did all of that from ages 7–49. That was my “calling”. I completed that “mission” with great and torrid “purpose”.
The next stop of course in life was Love. Or Sex. Or Both.
This was more of a purpose than a mission. One that I was poorly trained for by professors Mom and Dad. Terrible example you set there, folks.
I’ve failed over and over again at this love purpose. Sometimes, it’s me. Sometimes, it’s not me. But sometimes, it’s me.
The particular process of finding love/sex ended up swinging wildly from purpose to mission. From bliss to danger. From wrong to worse.
So now here I write, with a foot cut down by a minor bout with a self induced gout attack and by the failure of a 20 year partnership.
I now call it a partnership because I can’t call that experience a marriage; that’s the courts definition. I can’t call it a relationship, that requires two earnest lovers. There was only one earnest lover in this partnership. One. Who is left to review his purpose once again. Which is to either wallow in failure or tread life, paddling alone. Again.
So, again in hindsight the purpose may not have been that person, that place, that job. It may just have been the love I shared. Valued or not. The Attempt. The attention to other, again unreciprocated. Yes. The attention given was my calling. It’s what I love …to give. It was and maybe still wants to be my “mission”.
Whether the pursuits were appreciated by others in any capacity is unknown or the victim of an incompleted assessment. At best. This is the washout I’m left with now. The residue from a hearts repeated attempts.
The light of recognition is there. I see it now. I have a great need to be heard. To share my spirits marrow. I’ve never been the child who bellows for attention. I’m the child who privately proves themselves and records it on their own ledger of affecting gains and losses. So I move forward from here.
I need you, dear other. Let me share with you. First, please accept that my substance is not the exquisite dance that finds your souls compassion every time, at just the right tone and with unerring accuracy. For I have failed before and tumbled in the wrong direction, over and over again.
I am now resigned. I vault now easily towards that lonesome abyss. Risk free. An online profile bereft of flattering pictures or expecting a personal commitment from my unforeseen audience. That’s right. No expectations from this writer, just hope. Stop by and feel something. Or don’t. This is mine and may be all I have left to assign in my life as a purpose. I give it freely, grateful for the opportunity, for the chance to share.
